The gladiators marched in procession into the Hippodrome, parading around it until they reached the imperial box, where they stopped. Weapons raised high, they saluted the emperor and their generous patron with a single voice. “Those about to die salute you!”
“There is the Saxon,” Casia said, pointing to the tallest man in the group. “Isn’t he magnificent?”
“How can you possibly tell?” Cailin teased her friend. “That helmet with its visor virtually renders him invisible.”
“True,” Casia agreed, “but you will have to take my word for it. He’s got golden hair, and blue, blue eyes.”
“Many Saxons do,” Cailin replied.
Aspar leaned over and said, “The first matches will be fought with blunt weapons, my love. There will be no blood shed for now, and it will give you an idea of the skills involved.”
“I think I will prefer it to what must come later,” Cailin told him. “Must all these men fight until only one of them survives?”
“No,” he told her. “Six specific matches will be fought to the death. That is the number that Gabras purchased from this particular troupe of gladiators. Two death matches will be fought today, two tomorrow, and two on the last day of the games. The Saxon, who is the unbeaten champion, will fight today and on the last day. His main rival is a man called the Hun, who must fight all three days. If he survives the first two days, they will probably pair him with the Saxon on the last day. That should be quite a match.”
“I think it horrendous that someone must die,” Cailin said. “They are young men. Why, it goes against the very teachings of the church to allow such barbarity, yet there sits the patriarch and all his priests in their box on the other side of the emperor, enjoying this.”
Aspar put a gentle hand on hers. “Hush, my love, lest you be overheard,” he warned her. “Death is a part of life.”
The battle had begun below them. Young men with small shields and blunt weapons fought one another en masse. The crowds loved it, but eventually they began to tire of the mock engagement.
“Bring on the Saxon! Bring on the Hun!” they screamed.
The trumpets sounded a recall, and the fighters ran from the arena. The groundskeepers came forth and raked the ground smooth. Then silence descended upon the Hippodrome for what seemed several long minutes. Suddenly the Gladiators Gate in the wall opened and two men stepped forth. The crowds began to scream with their excitement.
“It is the Hun,” Aspar said. “He will fight with a Thracian.”
“He has no armor,” Cailin said.
“He needs none but the leather shoulder pads he wears, my love. He is a net man. Other than his net, he has but a dagger and a spear to fight with, but I think net men the most dangerous of gladiators.”
The Thracian, who was helmeted and wore greaves on both legs, carried a small shield and a curved sword. It seemed to Cailin a very unfair match, until the two men began to fight. The Hun tossed his net almost immediately, but the Thracian sidestepped it, and leaping behind his opponent, slashed at him. The wily Hun, obviously anticipating the ploy, moved quickly and was but scratched by the tip of the Thracian’s blade. The men fought back and forth for some minutes while the crowds screamed their encouragement to their favorites. Finally, when Cailin had begun to think these combats were vastly overrated for ferocity, the Hun leapt in the air and, with a deft flick of his wrist, swirled his net out gracefully. The Thracian, unable to escape, was enfolded in the web. Desperately, he thrashed at it with his sword, the crowd shrieking with their rising blood lust. The Hun jammed his spear into the ground, drew his dagger out and flung himself down upon the struggling man. It happened so quickly that Cailin wasn’t even certain she had seen it, but the sandy floor of the arena was swiftly stained with blood as the Hun cut his opponent’s throat and then stood victorious, acknowledging the cheers of the howling mob.
He was a man of medium height, powerfully built, and bald but for a horsetail of dark hair sprouting from his skull and tightly wrapped with a leather thong. He strode around the ring, accepting what he obviously considered his rightful due. While he did so, the groundskeepers ran forth, two of them dragging the lifeless body of the Thracian from the arena out through the Death Gate, the other two sprinkling fresh sand atop the blood and raking it vigorously.
Cailin was stunned. “It was so quick,” she murmured. One moment the Thracian had been valiantly defending himself, and in the next instant he was dead. He had not even cried out.
“Gladiators are not usually cruel to one another,” Aspar said gently to her. “They are generally friends or acquaintances, for they live together, eat, sleep, and whore together. Death matches are rare today, and Justin Gabras must have paid well for them. Or perhaps these gladiators are just desperate men who do not care. Some are like that.”
“I want to go home,” Cailin said quietly.
“You cannot go now!” Casia cried. “The last match of the day is about to begin, and it is the champion himself. The Hun is an amateur compared to the Saxon. If it becomes too bloody, you need not look, and we will just gossip, but you must see him without his helmet. He is a god, I tell you!” Casia enthused.
Aspar laughed, and turning to Basilicus, said, “I think I should be worried about Casia, my old friend, if I were you. She is obviously quite taken, nay, fascinated I think a better word, by this gladiator.”
“He is beautiful to look at,” Casia replied before the prince might say anything, “but I have usually found that beautiful faces and bodies are all men like the Saxon can offer. There is nothing else, neither wit, nor culture. After one has enjoyed a good romp in Cupid’s grove, it is nice to lie back and chatter, is it not, my lord?”
Basilicus nodded silently, but his eyes were twinkling.
“Ohh, look!” Casia said. “Here are the combatants. I should hate to be the poor fellow fighting with the Saxon. He must know he has no chance.”
“How sad for him,” Cailin answered her friend. “How terrible to know that he is facing his death on this beautiful bright day.”
Casia looked discomfited, but then she said brightly, “Well, there is always the chance that he just might get lucky and beat the champion. Wouldn’t that be exciting? At any rate, they will put on a good show for us, you may be certain.”
The Saxon and his opponent were both armed in the Samnite fashion. Each man wore a helmet with a visor. Each had a thick sleeve on the right arm and a greave on the left leg only. The men’s waists were encircled with a belt. They carried long shields and short swords. Their combat would be a very close encounter. Saluting the emperor and their patron, they immediately began to fight. In spite of herself, Cailin was fascinated, for this match seemed more even than the previous one.
Metal clanged upon metal as the two men thrust and parried with their weapons. Cailin soon realized that the battle was not so evenly matched after all. The Saxon’s antagonist was not his equal in skill. The champion jumped and twirled in a series of maneuvers deliberately executed to please the crowd. Twice the other man left himself open to attack, but the Saxon feinted to distract attention. Finally the crowd began to catch on, and they screamed with outrage.
“There’s few his match,” Basilicus noted. “He’s but tried to give them a good show, but they want blood. Well, they’ll get it now, I think. The Saxon should have been saved for the final day instead of having him fight two days. Gabras obviously wanted his money’s worth.”